


i wish i could (but i cant)

by firstaids



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, ok its gonna be a mess.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 13:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13482243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstaids/pseuds/firstaids
Summary: You're 16 years old when you realize you're going to die from lovesickness.You guess your mother was right about diseases all along.





	i wish i could (but i cant)

 

Richie walks past with a new girl attached to his hip– long hair and golden lashes— and for once you wish this one would stick. You're not sure if it's more painful to watch him trade lovers in and out like losing lottery tickets or to imagine him finding someone he could finally settle down with, even if it is only high school. At least more than the general two weeks he decides he can deal with someone, so your heart doesn't have to get used to all these new faces and new possibilities.

He tells the group that her name's Lorraine, and that she's French, like he's an announcer on an infomercial trying to sell a bargain deal. You know it's a lie and you can't tell if Richie knows, too, because no fancy foreign student would find themselves in washed up Derry without a freak accident that made them unable to see the dump they'd walked into. But he seems more excited this time than he did with the last girl, his arms waving around rapidly as he describes her home country, so instead of coughing up the obvious truth about her, you wait a minute before sliding your groups momentary stash of trash into the bin, muttering, “I have a ton of homework, so…”. You can tell, even with your back turned, that Bill’s gaze lingers on you a second longer than it reasonably should, and something about the implication makes your skin crawl, so you hurry to the library and find a quiet corner to wallow in.

 

“You should tell him.”

Bill finds you alone on the shore of the quarry after Richie starts feeling his girlfriend up in front of the rest of you, and worry laces his expression. You almost punch him for suggesting it so easily. “Really, Eds,” he adds sincerely, “he was worried when you ran out at lunch,” and you feel the heat under your skin simmer down.

“I don't know what you mean,” you lie, and he sighs, but not at you. You wish that you could love Bill instead sometimes. He would be gentle with your heart, you know- slow and soft and sweet. You used to, anyways; back when he was the first person to treat you like you were tough but still hold your hand when you needed it, back before Richie came tumbling in with his messy hair and big dark eyes. 

Almost as if on cue, Richie’s large feet find themselves at your side (along with, regrettably, Lorraine’s dainty ones, which you refuse to even glance at), and large drops of water splatter all over your brand new polo. You glare up at him, with his shit eating grin and raised eyebrows, and you start to stutter out an angry remark-- “ _ Rich! _ ”-- before you see it: their hands intertwined like thread, her thumb rubbing at his. Your face flushes and whatever you say gets swallowed down your throat, which feels like a pinhole. Bill is reaching for you but you’re already up and on your bike and riding away. You wish Richie would chase you, but you know he won’t.

You don’t go home because you can’t face your mother crying anymore, so you bend your body forward and speed up towards the pharmacy. You know Greta isn’t working today because even now you have every detail about the pharmacy memorized to the dot. Your arm creaks as a grim reminder of what she’d written on your cast, which was a grim reminder of that time you almost died, and you have to force your brain to go quiet so you don’t start crying harder. A couple of older men stalk the rows of first aid, so you duck behind the section with  _ pads  _ and  _ tampons _ , the things your mother still insists you’re too young to look at. Even though you know it’s bullshit, you can’t help shading your eyes from the goods in embarrassment, waiting for everyone else to leave. It takes about 10 minutes for the last customer to leave-- surprisingly, a younger boy with an inhaler that reminds you of yourself some four years ago-- and though you’ve stopped crying your eyes out by now, you’re still shaky, so you have to stumble over to the chair beside the back door. You hope Mr. Keene sees you making your way (as he always does) so you don’t have to call out with your cracking voice. You like that about him- how he sees you when no one else seems to, or wants to. When he swings open the half-door that leads behind the counter and starts making his way towards you, you really think you’ll do it-- tell him everything, about your mother, about Richie, about your… sexuality. But when he starts to kneel in front of you, you thrust out your inhaler, and mutter, “I need a refill.” It’s half full, but he still takes it with a sigh, and you know that this one is at you. You wonder briefly if he can read minds, and knew how close you were this time to finally talking to him, but you know that that’s dumb. He only sighs for your sake, for the fact that you still can’t help believing your mother’s lies when you take a puff of the acid tasting spray. Mr. Keene pushes the back door open, so you let yourself crumple a little and wait for his arrival. You don’t know how long it takes, because you startle when he’s urging you to take it back, eyebrows furrowed, and you accidentally snatch it in surprise.

As you stand up to leave, feeling awfully stiff, he reaches for your arm. “Edward, are you okay?” You force yourself to nod.

“Not even my mother calls me that,” you admit as you jog to the front door.

 

“Eddie-bear,” your mom starts when you swing the door open and it nearly busts from the impact with the wall.

“I don’t have time,” you reply immediately, but her hand is on your arm and you cringe. She’s remarkably fast for someone her size and age, which makes your mind reel on thoughts of the idea that she was put on this forsaken Earth just to be your downfall.  _ Maybe she was, maybe I’m just supposed to suffer forever, so others feel better about themselves. _ It’s a stupid thought, especially since no one you know besides the Bowers crew ever felt better about themselves when seeing you in pain. It hurts a bit to remember them.

“Where were you?” she shakes you from your thoughts quite literally, and you hate to admit how easily she can manipulate your small body.

“Went to the pharmacy.” You’re not lying. She takes the inhaler from your hand and checks it, before looking at you oddly.

“It wasn’t empty.”

“How do you know that?” you bark, ripping your arm away and rushing up the stairs. She screams at you but doesn’t give chase. You know you’ll pay for it later anyways.

Even though she broke the lock on your door, Richie made you a shabby one in woodworking that fits snugly around the handle. You hardly use it, because there’s no use trying to stop your mother when she really wants in, but you need the elusive idea of privacy and security right now. Stan gave you one, too- it was gold colored, and had nice, blocky letters on the front.

“You’re a real spitfire today, Eds.”

You twist all too fast at his voice. Richie sits comfortably on your comforter, arm against the frame of your window and half-smoked cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. His fingers graze where your window lock should’ve been idly, and you stare a few moments too long at them, before he coughs and you’re brought back to the moment.

“What-- What the fuck are you doing in my room?” You start loud, but quiet down when you remember your mother is still downstairs, angry as ever. You stomp up to him, ripping the cigarette from his mouth harshly, and he replaces it with a grin. “And with this? In my room? You were supposed to quit, asshole!”

“I had to cope with not seeing my sweet little Eds for so long,” he coos, and you only get angrier, so he pulls back a little. “You keep leaving when I’m around- like, all of our lunches this week, and the quarry today.”

“I’m just busy.”

“Yeah, I can tell. I’ve been waiting here for like an hour. Are you fucking someone behind my back, Spaghetti?”

“Don’t call me that,” you bite back spitefully. “You know I’m not fu- having sex with anyone.”

“Are you mad at me?” It comes out softer than everything else, and for a second you forget you’re mad at him, or how you ever could be.

“I’m not,” you reassure, and you have to really think about it. “Not really.”

“Then what’s up?” he slides another cigarette out of his pack, and you immediately snatch it and toss it out the window. He doesn’t react.

“Nothing, I just had to go to the pharmacy.”

His eyebrow crooks, and you hate it. “What for?”

You shift weight on your feet, hearing too clearly the concern in your voice. You want to imagine it as loving, but you won’t give yourself the chance. You throw your backpack to the bed, where it almost hits him, before shuffling the papers on your desk and trying to figure out what’s what so you can at least act like you have something to do other than have this conversation.

He doesn’t let up though, and his voice gets even softer when he calls, “Eds?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why were you at the pharmacy?”

You reach into your pocket and toss the inhaler at him, which he catches perfectly despite the angle. He blinks for a minute. “You don’t need this, Eddie.”

“Yeah,” you say, starting to write the word  _ FUCK _ over and over on your homework.

“You got it refilled?” You turn to look at him.

“Yes, Richie! I got it refilled!”

He shrinks a little when you yell, and you shake your head, immediately feeling guilt. “I mean… I don’t know. Just in case.”

He goes silent, and you watch him from the corner of your eye. You wonder if he feels you looking as he leans back, eyes closed. He doesn’t pull another cigarette out this time, just inhaling and exhaling, a few strands of hair waving off his forehead.

You want to ask what he’s thinking about, or why he’s so worried for you, but what comes out instead is, “You left Lorraine at the quarry?”

His eyes pop open, and he nods. “Yeah. She had homework anyways, and Bill said I should come, so…”

“Oh,” you say, trying and failing to hide the disappointment.  _ It was only circumstance that he came anyways; he probably didn’t want to.  _ You bite your bottom lip, shaking your head visibly. “Well, I’m fine, Rich, so you can go.”

He doesn’t move at first- his hands twiddle with each other, and his buttons, and the bed. But then he gets up and opens the window and leaves without another word. There’s only a couple of seconds between his exit and your following, just to see if he’s really leaving, and you watch him bike away down the street a little slower than usual. You push your window shut and fall face flat onto your bed.

You fall asleep to your phone going off with Bill’s ringtone.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope this was a good cut off point!! thank you for your support!


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